The Proposition
by Brunette
Summary: Mr. Kelly, I would like to give you fifteen hundred dollars...to be the father of my child.
1. egy

_Author's Note: I really don't need to start another story, but since_ Glass Houses_ is coming together so nicely and quickly, and since_ Yeah, Well I Hope You Die_ only has one more chapter left, and since I pretty much sparatically update_ Kings of New York_, I think it's alright if I start a new one. I'm aiming for this to be a three-part, thought it may be longer, depending. So ... here we go._

_Disclaimer: I don't own the stuff you recognize, I do own the stuff you don't. I will say the chapter titles are the numbers one through (whatever, hopefully three) in Hungarian because, if you don't know Joe Pulitzer was a Hunyak._

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**"Even the white lily casts a black shadow."  
**_Hungarian Proverb_

egy

Jack Kelly didn't know why he even rolled out of bed anymore.

Every time he held up a paper, every time he strained his voice hawking a headline, he was only reminded that he was much too old for this stuff. Yesterday, a gruff old man with wire-gray hair had scoffed at him, adjusting his mannicle and going into a ten minute speech on what a lazy young man Jack was. A paper boy was just that -- a boy, and Jack could never hope to be a respectable adult if he wasted his time selling papers. All the orphans on the street, and there he was, a man in his own right, snatching the pennies right out of their hands with every sale he chalked up. Jack knew, somewhere in his heart, that he should be selling his soul to Rockefeller or Carnegie and leave the freedom of the streets to younger boys, but the more frequent chidings of strangers was irritating him, and making him stubborn against it. He'd go to the factories in his own due time, and not a moment sooner. Here he was, trying to savor the precious few weeks he had left, and all he was getting were dark looks and the all-too-recurrent words of wisdom.

So he was really in no mood when a dame in a blue silk frock and white lace gloves studied him as she fingered through her purse for a penny. He was irritated as her navy-colored eyes traced over his jawline, and took in his shoulders and height, and he was irritated when she twisted her head and asked nonverbally for his returned gaze.

"How old are you?"

Jack ground his teeth, but knew better than to lash out from aggrivation. She hadn't handed him the coin yet. "Thirteen."

She scoffed, jerking a dark blonde brow incredulously. "Do you think I'm an idiot?"

He licked his lips, shaking his head vigorously. If only she'd give over the penny. "No, no ma'am."

She was tall and somewhat severe looking when she crossed her arms and looked down her long, aristocratic nose at him. Those dark blue eyes flashed dangerously, and he watched her fingers close over a whole silver dollar. Jack swallowed nervously. Now wasn't the time to be acting stupid.

"Then why are you lying to me as if I was a fool?" Jack had to tear his eyes away from her hand, and a little smile softened the sharp lines of her face. She held the coin coyly between her thumb and forefinger, letting the early-morning sun catch on it and glint flirtaciously. "Oh, you noticed that, did you?"

Jack cleared his throat nervously and looked her directly in her strange eyes. "I'll be eighteen day after tomorrow."

Her brows rose again, and her smile slipped to a smirk. He liked her better when she was smiling. "Happy birthday."

He didn't know why her voice made him anxious. Jack took a breath, wanting to hold out his hand for the silver dollar, but also afraid to upset her. He coughed and looked at the cobblestone beneath their feet.

"Thanks."

She tipped his chin up to look at her, and Jack couldn't believe she'd just touched him. Every other dame -- at least the high class ones like her -- had crafted the ability to not touch street people into an art. He'd seen it a thousand times, and watched when they dropped coins into a vagabond's cup. And here, this odd, bony blonde who may have been pretty if she wasn't so frightening was taking his face in her hand and staring him in his eyes.

"I recently had a birthday. Just last week. I turned twenty-six."

Jack shrugged, managing awkwardly, "Happy birthday."

But she shook her head, precisely, her gaze darkening a little and making her look all the more shrewd. "No. It was not a happy birthday. It was not joyous at all. I am twenty-six years old, young man, and I have failed to produce a single child."

He cleared his throat and had to look away. He wondered why it was she saw the need to confide all this in him. "Them's the breaks."

She breathed a sigh, turning her eyes from his face and staring at something far-off -- perhaps the newly-painted Macy's or one of the other dozen boutiques. "Five years. I've been married to the man five years. And you know they all think it's my fault. He certainly wouldn't be at fault. The man is fifty-three years old but he _certainly_ is still as virile as anyone younger ..."

That dark cerulean gaze came back to him slowly, and she twisted her head thoughtfully to the side as she looked at him again. The way she stroked her jaw and lowered her eyelids was making Jack anxious to be out of her presence. He furrowed his brow to express his puzzlement, but her expression did not alter for the next awkward few minutes. She clicked her tongue pensively before musing slowly:

"I've seen you at the curb before."

Jack shook his head, glancing down the street to be rid of her eyes. "No ... no, ma'am, I don't think so. This's Skittery's corner. You probably saw him."

She was still watching him, and her gaze was losing its unnerving affect on him to pure irritation. "No. It was you. I noticed you because you look so much like my older brother, Alfred, when he was your age."

He turned his head to look back at her, feeling his stomach drop a little. Something devilish was working behind that high, even brow of hers.

"Do you have a name, young man? Not one of those ridiculous street names, but a real one."

He took a breath, and thought about walking away from her. Damn that silver dollar. "Jack Kelly."

She smiled again, and for that moment she was quite pretty ... but a glint in her eye made her dangerous, and he felt a hard, driving sense of wrong at finding her attractive.

"Now isn't that quaint and Irish," she commented in a tone he really couldn't read. "Mr. Kelly, aren't you a little old to be a newsie?"

Jack breathed a sigh, and very nearly rolled his eyes. "Yeah, ma'am. I am," he retorted shortly.

But her smile did not waver. "But you would rather be an overgrown newsie than a factory man. Am I correct?"

He met her gaze and nodded. The aggrivation was growing to a slow boil in his veins; he'd had about enough of this too-smart wealthy woman and her disconnected questions.

"Mr. Kelly, I would like to give you fifteen hundred dollars."

Jack's attention was caught so quickly, he forgot that he had been getting rather angry at her. His dark eyes tried to take over his face at his shock, and his mouth hung wordlessly for a few idiot moments before he was ably to procure a pathetic:

"W-why?"

She glanced down the street, once, twice. Apparently, no one with important ears was approaching. She met his awestruck gaze easily. "To be the father of my child."

Jack's mind fell blank. He couldn't remember how to speak English, and he didn't know how to speak anything else. Finally:

" 'Scuse me?"

She rolled her eyes, dismissing his tone with a brisk flick of her hand. "Oh, don't look so morally obligated. No one will know. My husband will believe it's his, and you -- you'll be richer than all your previous earnings combined. And for what, Mr. Kelly? For lying with a woman. And if I am not mistaken, most men in your position have to pay for that activity."

She may have coaxed him in her harsh little way longer; in retrospect, Jack Kelly couldn't remember. From the point at which she suggested fifteen hundred dollars until the time when she walked with cold, clean steps away, his mind only recalled a smudgy blur of almost-events and conversation-bits. He had to get out a cigarette and light up, needed the tobacco to burn his throat and set his doubts on fire. He was about to be a wealthy man -- this he knew. He knew he was proud, and the fact that he was to become a rich shrew's temporary whore equivilated a hard kick to the balls. Jack Kelly would have let someone kick him in the balls for fifteen hundred dollars; he was certainly not above having sex for that fee. Especially since he was buying his own freedom. But ...

Oh, people did it all the time. Probably a fourth of the bigwig brats in the country didn't belong to the man who had given them their names. And ... well, he was doing well for himself -- that was true. But he was also doing well for at least one of his kids, if Jack Kelly had kids by legitamate means later on in life. Still ...

Maybe it was ... well, he knew what it was. Just before she'd left, she'd held out her hand and given him one quick, impersonal handshake, wrapping her fingers around the palm on which he'd written the address she'd told him to come to, and stated simply:

"My name is Lilike Pulitzer. I suppose you have a right to know that, Mr. Kelly."


	2. ketto

_Author's Note: Thanks to all 'a y'all who reviewed! I always appreciate it!_

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ketto

Jack Kelly slid the neat, creaseless bills under the grating, not even bothering to glance the ticketer in the eye. Under normal circumstances, he would have wondered if a full, gray mustache was required uniform for men in the train ticket-selling business. But the just-turned eighteen-year-old was too busy trying to drag his mind out of the past to bother with the lifeless, mechanical motions of the present.

_"Mr. Kelly. You bathed and everything. How very thoughtful," her tone ridiculed him in her sharp, cruel way as the tall blonde ushered him through the door. Her steps were too quick to allow his to be as awkward as he was feeling. He followed behind her, removing his cowboy hat as an afterthought and gripping it nervously in his right hand. She glanced over her shoulder, once, before starting up the wide, glimmering dark wood staircase. _

"Santa Fe," the ticket salesman sighed, passing the deeply-desired item under the grating and giving Jack a polite, service-industry smile. "Always wanted to go out West."

_"Don't touch anything," Lillike advised in her high-faluting voice. Jack didn't have to look up to know her chin was tilted so that her nose could get a little higher. "Joseph is insanely particular."_

_He paused as she continued briskly down the hall, glancing at a little end table below a painting of flowers or something in nature. The delicate stand somehow managed to support a vase of fresh roses and a photograph of the somber-faced couple. He stared down at the picture, a slow smirk stretching across face. He could feel her sharp, piercing eyes prompting him to hurry up, and Jack Kelly didn't care. He gave a sarcastic little nod to the likeness of Pulitzer, glancing up to meet her cold, blue gaze. _

_"What is your problem?" she demanded arrogantly, inclining her head even more as she leaned in the doorway of her chosen room._

Jack forced a little smile and slipped the ticket in the pocket of his newly-purchased jacket. He turned away from the ticket box now, allowing the next person in line to purchase his or her pass to freedom. He breathed in the hot, acrid aroma of smoke, falling into the pressing crowd. Adrenaline coursed through his veins and fueled his anxiety, but he reminded himself with a newfound realism that there was really no hurry. He would be on the train soon enough.

_He didn't say a word. He just allowed that smirk to darken his features and strode to where she leaned. Her glare questioned his every step, but he didn't give that cavalier mouth the chance to reprimend him. He was sick of her mouth and her words and those icy, lifeless eyes. He blamed Pulitzer. The senile old man hadn't been able to melt his frigid wife, and now Jack was left to this vindictive little shrew. Well, Cowboy had been stepped on by a lot of people in his life, but he'd be damned if a staunch, spoiled blonde was going to command him about her bedroom._

_Jack took a forceful hold of her narrow, lacking hips and shoving his mouth against her stiff lips. He didn't care if it was unbecoming or even border-line assaulting; the last thing Mrs. Pulitzer needed was someone tiptoing about, asking how she would like to be kissed or handled. An incoherent noise of protest was muffled in her throat as he jerked up the hem of her skirt to get at her legs._

He grabbed hold of the bar and mounted the steps into the train, a thrill throbbing like an old pain as his foot finally, after all these years, connected with the ribbed, metal floor of the locomotive. Jack Kelly couldn't hold down a smile. As he slipped passed an olderly gentleman and dodged a young woman with her baby in her arms and her stumbling toddler managing at her side, a grin slung itself carelessly across his features. He slid happily into one of the many patent green seats, leaning against the smudged window. He bit his lip anxiously, tilting his head to try and catch a glimpse of the presently-still wheels beneath him.

_Her nails were sharp and angry through his flimsy shirt, and, had his tongue not been half-way down her throat, he would have laughed. With a pathetic lack of effort, he hauled her slight form up in his arms and stumbled a few more steps into the room. He jerked out of their lip-lock tersely and tossed her onto the enormous, embroidered brocade bedspread, watching her roll a little before she was able to regain her balance. She glared up at him, panting irritably for breath as Jack ripped off his vest and handkerchief, running his fingers nimbly down the front of his shirt and freeing the frayed loops from their buttons. Lillike's feral blue eyes demanded vindication, and she propped herself onto her knees, struggling across the mattress to the rude young man she intended to pay. With clenched teeth and bruised pride, she took hold of his rope belt and jerked him towards the bed, causing the younger man to lose his balance and stumble onto the soft, shining ivory fabric. Her fingers were twisting in his overgrown hair, and Jack wondered at this sudden turn of affection for a full second before she yanked him up to eyelevel by the strands of his head. _

_"You impudent bast --"_

_Jack Kelly was in no mood to let that little bitch insult him again. He took hold of her wrists and threw her onto her back, landing easily on top of her. Lillike struggled against him, and opened her mouth to yell at him again, but Jack enveloped those wicked lips in his own. She wrenched her arms free of his hands ... and suddenly were tight about his neck, and her legs were crossed around his waist, and she was kissing him back ..._

"Excuse me."

An older man, about fifty, with spectacles and full sideburns was tapping him politely. Jack met his eyes, swallowing nervously. It was a natural reaction. Too often had such men as this been prepared to take him to court for one reason or another. He told his nerves to shut up and forced a smile.

"Yeah?"

The gentleman cleared his throat in remote offense, but only returned with, "I believe you're in my seat."

Jack's brow furrowed, reaching into his jacket pocket and procuring his ticket. "You sure? This is 33, ain't it?"

The other man adjusted his spectacles and brought his ticket up closer to his face, breathing a sigh. "Well, my goodness. Begging your pardon, sir. I don't see as well as I used to."

The boy let out a relieved sigh, and smiled again -- genuinely, this time. "No problem."

_She was screaming in his ear and the sound reverberated in his brain, running like an inconsistent melody over the rhythm beating like blood in his veins. Her nails, again, digging painfully into his shoulder. He reached up with one of his hands and closed his fingers over hers, ripping the offensive digits off of his body and onto the bed. Even now, she had to take a shot at him. How could any man -- even Pulitzer -- put up with such a woman?_

Jack returned his gaze to the window, adjusting his position to lean against the metal side of the train. A dull pain raced from his shoulder in protest, and he snorted. Wouldn't that figure.

_She slipped her hand from beneath his and took hold of his face, willing his eyes to open. Jack took a breath and obeyed her desire, and staring into her gaze. The look in those eternal blue depths made him pause for a moment. Shock pulsed through his system, and suddenly he didn't hate her so much. Her eyes looked like pools of boiling water ... the ice had dissolved, and the tears slipping down her cheeks were purely human. She did not blink, and the street boy felt a quiver in his stomach. He swallowed nervously, lowering himself on shaking arms and gently touching his lips to hers. Lillike's fingers slipped up from his neck and into his hair, and he rest his forehead against hers for a few seconds before his arms collapsed beneath him. Her chest rose with an inhale against him, and he let her run her shaking fingers over his back._

It suddenly occured to Jack that something was pressing uncomfortably against his ribs, and with a furrowed brow, he reached into his jacket pocket again, removing a slip of paper that had not been there before.

_When the sun streamed in through the windows, Jack was as shocked as Lillike that he had been permitted to sleep in the Pulitzers' bedroom. He propped himself up on his elbows, glancing at the delicate little clock on the bedside table. Something like guilt stabbed him for the first time as he noticed the light catching on a large, sparkling diamond ring beside the clock. He let out a sigh, and pulled himself from her sheets. _

He unfolded it thoughtfully, surprised by the thin, severe letters pronounced neatly across the lineless paper. With a sigh, he read through it, and felt his gut drop sickeningly.

_I would give you another $1500 to stay._

Jack took a deep breath, shaking his head. He stared out the window, searching for something to concentrate on.

The train hadn't moved yet.


	3. harom

_Author's Note: And ... we come to an end. Just want to thank everyone again! Drinks all around!_

_Jack Sparrow: Wrong fandom._

_Jack Kelly: Screw you, pirate-boy._

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három

Jack Kelly still wondered what that Santa Fe sky must look like.

He pressed the shining gold buttons through the silk loops of his embroidered waistcoat, straightening the the double-breasted fabric over his staunch linen shirt. Letting out a sigh, he reached for the black velvet dress coat that hung crisp and clean on a hanger dangling from the door that let onto his closet. He still couldn't subdue a snort when he saw that wooden barrier. Never in his life had Jack needed an entire little room to hold his clothes. He had to wonder what kind of man would ever require such a thing, but he knew the answer to that musing. Dandies. Dandies needed walk-in closets and pearl cuff links and shiny top hats and heavy French collogne. Two weeks ago, he would have made fun of a man dressed like this, if he were to see him on the street. Two weeks ago, Jack Kelly was starving and poor, too.

Not today, though. Not today or tomorrow or the next day. Today, he would be eating turkey and cranberry sauce or little doves stuffed with spices, or some shit like that. He didn't tell Lilike he hated it. He didn't tell her the only thing he wanted was bacon seared over an open fire in the cool, desert night. He didn't tell her a lot of things. But she spoke. She might go on in her hoity-toity tone about events and places she knew he hadn't the slightest idea about, and then chuckle low in her throat at his ignorance. Jack had started biting his tongue, recently. He didn't retort to her high-assed manners, because he had the ultimate one-liner. At least ... he used to. Last week he could silence her between the mattress and the sheets, and ... he still did. But the next morning, she'd send a box of chocolates or a glint of masculine jewelry. He thought he had the upper hand, but then she'd smirk at him through the delicate gold wrapper of a sugary square. He'd shut her up, and then she'd remind him that she owned him.

Two weeks since he'd stepped off that train ... and for what? For this apartment, and these clothes ... for this glittering, expensive cage she had easily shovelled out the dollars and cents for. He adjusted the dress coat over his shoulders, meeting his own eyes in the mirror with disgust.

"Ya know what you look like, Mr. Kelly?" he asked the reflection darkly, running his fingertips over his jawline for stubble. "Ya look like a fucking scab."

He snorted, shaking his head bitterly and glancing at the clock. Lilike had said she wanted to meet him at noon, at a restaurant called Bartley's. Bartley's was the kind of place a couple having an affair could go. Jack had discovered, recently, that it was much harder for a lady of society to carry on scandalously than for a gentleman. Some businessmen and brokers even took their mistresses out to parties and balls, if their wives fell ill or refused to go with them. But male lovers were a completely different matter. Jack hadn't hidden this much since Snyder was on his ass. Sometimes he laughed sadly to himself about that, but most of the time, he didn't laugh at all.

With a final glance in the mirror, Jack grabbed his cape and slung the material over his shoulders. Inhaling a little more apathy, he strode across the room; out of the apartment, the building. He walked down the street with his head down, his gaze cast over the cobblestones beneath his feet. Lilike said she had some good news for him. Jack could guess at what it was, but he wouldn't.

He tried thinking about Pulitzer, but even the thought of the naive, arrogant old bastard did little to alleviate his mood. He screwed the crook's wife; so what? It wasn't like he knew; besides, Jack didn't work for the newspaper man anymore. He'd already beaten Pulitzer once. It seemed kind of petty to vindicate events already over and won. His thoughts only soured. He wasn't even doing this for personal satisfaction anymore. It was just money, now. Money he generally spent at her direction.

Sometimes he saw Sarah's face, when he was with Lilike. _Lil-eh-key ..._ what the hell kind of name was that, anyway? She said it was Hungarian, like everybody ought to know that. He didn't say her name when he banged her. He pretended she was someone else, most nights. He pretended he was in love with Sarah, so that he could justify imagining her instead. Sarah Jacobs was Sarah Meyers, now. He couldn't remember who had told him that ... but she'd eloped with Mush, and Jack wondered, remotely, if his grinning friend had knocked her up. Mush would have been a good enough guy to marry her, if he did. Jack knew, even if Lilike had been unwed, he'd never take away her shame with a ring. Something else told him he would, if she waved a few bills under his nose.

Jack Kelly may have been sporting a top hat and ivory-tipped cane, but he was still a poor man at heart.

Maybe that was why so many bigshots were born starving and barefoot. Jack, certainly, knew a desperate enough person would do anything for money. For the first time, Pulitzer's price-hike made some twisted form of sense. Joe had been a grimy streetrat, too, and he still was. He was still grappling for the security of wealth, even though he already had it. Jack's stomach dropped sickeningly as his eye caught the glimmer of the heavy, garnet ring Lilike had sent him just the other day, but he pushed the mental nausea away, reaching gruffly for the dark door of Bartley's.

Everything about the restaurant was dark; dark woodwork, dark leather upholstery, dark yellow kerosene lights. Here, the place generated enough for electric, but each table was stubbornly illuminated by the dull, sickly flicker of oil. It was on purpose. This was a place for dark dealings. Jack squinted in search of the shrewd woman, but it took until his eyes adjusted to the lacking light. He strode easily across the room, to a table in the back where she sat, her lips pursed impatiently.

"So you did decide to join me."

Jack scoffed, falling into the chair adjacent her. "What am I -- like a minute late?"

Lilike didn't answer, but instead reached for her spindly cup of tea and take a pert little sip. Her date just sighed, breathing an unappologetic, "Sorry."

She shrugged, running her tongue over her lips. "I forgive you."

Jack wondered when lagging punctuality became a sin.

"So what's this news you got?" he prompted with a forced smile, changing the subject. Her expression didn't change, but the pallid lamplight caught a glinting sparkle in her odd eyes.

"I'm with child now," she informed him, lifting up her tea again. "Dr. Cabot confirmed it just this morning ... I'm almost a month along."

Jack's brow furrowed in confusion, and he cleared his throat uncomfortably. He was pretty sure people weren't supposed to talk about things like pregnancy, but Lilike, the grand expert on etiquette had brought it up, so he figured he had a right to inquire in a whisper:

"But -- we just ... Lilike, we didn't ... you and me didn't -- a month ago --"

Her shoulders lifted mysteriously. "Then that would lead one to believe the child isn't yours, wouldn't it?"

He swallowed uneasily, looking about the room. His stomach was churning again, like before, but in a much more physical sense of sickness. Quickly, Jack turned his eyes directly to hers.

"I -- I can't ... Lilike, you been knocked up this whole time, and you -- how _didn't_ ya know?" he demanded in a hushed, hissing tone. She met his accusing gaze easily.

"You can't expect me to know everything. What difference does it make, anyway?"

Jack's deep brown eyes widened considerably, and he had to fight the initial urge to yell at her. "It makes a huge damn difference!"

"I think you're overreacting," she diagnosed coolly. He just shook his head because his mind was too numb to command him to do otherwise. Finally, as sense faded back to him, Jack leaned over the table.

"I never woulda agreed to any 'a this if I'da known."

She tilted her head, returning in her cold, even tone: "I wouldn't have required your services if I had known. You ought to be thankful. Imagine the wreck you'd be living in without me. Now, would you like a coffee?"

Jack stared into those frozen, cobalt eyes, his mind churning as fiercely as his stomach. In the midst of the storm raging in his head, a thought struck like lightning and held him in jaw-dropping awe. He felt the color fleeing his face in realization.

"You did know," he muttered suddenly. Her eyebrows rose dismissively.

"I believe we've assessed that I _did not_, Jack."

But he was watching her stubbornly. "You did. You knew, 'cause you just about let me leave New York."

Lilike rolled her eyes. "Your point being?"

"You was takin' one hell of a chance, sleepin' with me once and hopin' to get knocked up."

She froze, her fingertip gracing the lip of her teacup, thin, pink lips slightly parted. A little smirk took hold of the corner of Jack Kelly's mouth.

"I'm right, huh? Joe did somethin' to piss you off, and you's gettin' back at him."

Her eyes narrowed, and she straightened in her seat superiorly. "What do you care? As long as I pay your expenses, why should it matter to you what my motives are?"

Something new was pumping fervently through Jack Kelly's veins, and he pulled himself easily from the chair. She glared up at him, commanding him through those dark, inhuman orbs to take his seat. A genuine smile spread across his face as he leaned against the table.

"You's a sad waste 'a woman, Mrs. Pulitzer."

Lilike bolted to a stand as he strode across the restaurant, stopping at the door for his cape and hat. She took hold of the shining, black silk headwear, ripping it from his grasp in a rather unladylike display.

"That's mine!" she growled. Jack released the article. "It's all mine! I paid for it!"

Jack Kelly shrugged, twisting the doorknob and allowing himself out into the cooling autumn air.

"I'll send it back to ya. I remember the address."

Her fingers gripped his elbow authoritatively. "Mr. Kelly --"

Jack started at an easy walk, pulling his arm politely out of her grasp.

"Tell Joe congrats for me."

_vég_


End file.
